


One Oren a night

by so_damn_Mishalicious



Series: Witchery AU goodness [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bisexual Disaster Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Inspired by The Witcher, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Meme, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Prostitution, we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_damn_Mishalicious/pseuds/so_damn_Mishalicious
Summary: 'One could mistake him for a traveling scholar but the obnoxious choice of clothes in the doublet and pants combo speaks for itself.He's a male prostitute. A pretty one at that.Geralt leans forward, trying not to look too intimidating while he towers over the man."How much for a night?"The other halts in his tracks, seemingly startled by his approach as he turns towards him."I'm not a who-" his eyes grow wide as they take in his frame, pupils instantly blown, "One oren." '---Geralt mistakes Jaskier for a prostitute as they meet the first time in Passiflora. Jaskier doesn't seem to mind.(Inspired by the amazing meme on twitter, that drips 'I'm not a whore, unless a hot Witcher is involved'- Jaskier vibes)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witchery AU goodness [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686538
Comments: 48
Kudos: 868
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	One Oren a night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erika_Bee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erika_Bee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [One oren a night meme](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/610177) by Erika Bee9. 



> Don't blame me pls. I saw it and it just hit my humour right and my fantasy went on a rampage.
> 
> Enjoy!

It's well past noon when he sets foot to Passiflora.

The city is big and buzzing with life, all kind of merchants, travellers and shady men minding their own businesses littering the streets. It's a busy day, most people finishing their daily work to enjoy the rest of the afternoon, maybe even an entertaining evening or night. The city is well-known for its whorehouses, twelve to be exact, spread out all around town. It's not an uncommon sight to see the prostitutes mingle with the other people, their bright coloured, often revealing clothes making them stand out from the mass. They tend to hang out on the corners of the street, flirting with those passing by, garnering all kinds of attention. It's good, because that's exactly what he seeks. The city is big enough for him not to stand out too much, which means a lot considering he's a Witcher. But even Witchers have needs, so he gently pulls on the reigns of his mare and leads her down the street.

Geralt's purse is filled with coin, a good contract that involved him cleaning off a nest of nekkers also leaves him in a good mood. He directs his steps toward the nearest inn, stabling Roach and feeding her some treats. She has been very good during the whole duration of their journey and deserves some pampering. He tosses the stable boy another coin to ensure she's properly cared for and seen to, then enters the inn. Even here the harlots are chatting among the customer, rather unphased by his entrance, so he makes sure to keep it that way and pulls the hood of his cloak deeper into his face.

The negotiations with the innkeeper are quick. He pays to stay for three days, gets the key and leaves for his room to deposit his pack there. He'll make sure to replenish his provisions the next days, needing herbs and other ingredients to stock up on. For now he won't have a need for his twin swords, leaving them in the tavern. The Witcher keeps a short blade on his belt and a dagger inside his boot, just in case his evening plans are changing.

He picks one of the more modest establishments to try his luck. Geralt is looking for a good lay or two but not to blast all his money on a warm body for a night. Pushing open the door, he's greeted with the sight of a plenty crowded room. Laughter fills the air, just like the stench of alcohol. The girls chat with potential clients, showing off their curves, sitting on laps and batting their lashes. Curious glances follow his broad form and light hair but he keeps his eyes on the ground for the moment. He prefers to scout the room first, read the atmosphere. Many are unsettled by the presence of a Witcher and he has no use for unwanted attention.

The typical scent of fear reaches his nose, muddled with the aroma of sweet perfume, all kinds of cosmetic powders and unwashed bodies. His heightened senses are a blessing and a curse, registering everything around him. He catches the clanging of glasses across the room, the sound of skin on skin mixed with lust, a trilling fake laughter. There's chatter about some bard and his 'most delightful' performance and someone throws up on the second floor, just in that moment. Closing his eyes he tries to focus, to keep himself from drowning in the overflowing sensations. He has crossed the room by now, standing near the tables, set in front of the window and the scent of ink hits his nose.

Geralt frowns. Not something he usually encounters in such spaces, the offices of the hags mostly kept on a different floor altogether to prevent criminal activities. There's also the scratching of a quill on paper that catches his interest and makes him open his eyes.

On the second table to his right sits an attractive man, dressed in an unusual bright set of clothes, idly making notes into a small book. He looks young, not much older than twenty, his chestnut hair kept in a short style, the slightest hints of curls at its ends. His body is lithe but long, bordering on scrawny but below the fabric the Witcher can make out the faint traces of muscles. Cornflower blue eyes adorn a boyish face, pretty in its form and without a hint of beard. He could be mistaken for an elf with the fineness of these facial features, save for the round ears poking out below his hair. A half-elf maybe. Who knows.

Said eyes are fixed on the paper in front of him as his hands scribble away in curled handwriting, long fingers handling the moving tool with practised ease. The tip of his tongue pokes out between plush, pink lips in concentration. A mug sits forgotten before him on the table, its contents ignored for whatever the man was doing. One could mistake him for a traveling scholar but the obnoxious choice of clothes in the doublet and pants combo speaks for itself.

He's a male prostitute. A pretty one at that.

They're rather rare across the continent, not welcome in all kingdoms, especially those with strict religious beliefs. Who knows what brought the young man here. Maybe a family debt cleaned off by selling away an unwanted child. Or a marriage gone wrong that made him flee from where he once came. Whatever it is, there's something about the other intriguing him. He had his shares with female partners as well as males. Also he knows how to handle a cock, having one on his own. So he huffs, squaring his shoulders and walking over to stop by his side. His hood slips from his hair as he leans forward just a bit, trying not to look too intimidating while he towers over the man that doesn't seem to notice him.

"How much for a night?" his voice is deep, gruff as always, sounding close to a growl. The other halts in his tracks, seemingly startled by his approach as he turns towards him.

"I'm not a who-" his eyes grow wide as they take in his frame, pupils instantly blown, "One oren."

One oren? Surely the other must be joking. Either he had a piss poor sense of humor or a massive flaw in negotiations. Scowling in confusion, he tries to deduce what it is of these two.

"Nah, that can't be right."

"No, no! Absolutely not." the brunette's body turns to face him, hands moving in flaunty gestures while he smiles sheepishly, "Consider it a super special discount of the day. Because you're my uh - my hundredth customer in this town. Yes, ha congratulations!"

The words taste like a lie on his tongue, but there's no scent of malicious intent rolling of the man. No hatred, no despise. No fear. It's confusing and enthralling all the same. Still he's spouting bullshit but what for?

Set on not wasting any more time, the other suddenly stands, quickly gathering his scattered supplies to his chest.

"So, well - I've got a room upstairs, so if you don't want to just stand there and watch - which is terribly adorable by the way, I love the way you just stand there and brood - we should get moving, don't you agree?"

A talkative one. Just great. Grunting quietly in reply, he ponders how to handle the situation. Something's fishy, though he can't tell exactly what is. Maybe he should go. Things like that easily turned to shit.

"Oh a silent one, fun. This will make it all the more enjoyable, when I make you scream in pleasure."

Without a hint of hesitation, the other takes his hand. Their gazes meet and the man smiles in an impish way.

"Call me Jaskier by the way. But most call me 'Oh my god' while at it as well. And what is your name, my dear handsome stranger?"

Jaskier. Buttercup. A strange name for a strange guy. Still he follows, letting himself being dragged away, enthralled in the other's wake as he obediently follows him into his room.

"Geralt."

+++

"What do you mean, you're not a whore?"

Jaskier stretches like a lazy cat in the sun, his hair mused from sleep and sex, flushed skin littered with bite marks and some bruises from their coupling. He purred like a feline as well, a content sound in the romps they had and gods, he should have known. No way a prostitute would talk that damn much while fucking, not even one with a voice kink like the brunette.

Chuckling, Jaskier just shrugs his shoulders, first signs of a grin tugging on the corners of his lips. He's beautiful like that, bathed in the sunlight of the early morning.

"Well, my devilish handsome face may betray my true profession, but I'm not but a humble bard, traveling the lands and thrilling the people with my songs and sonnets."

The bard. One of the girls did talk about him. Fuck. Geralt closes his eyes with a growl. How could he not have noticed?

"Aw come on, no more of your borish grunts of protest. Don't act like you didn't enjoy it - you came a few times too often to deny taking any pleasures out of this."

Obviously the not-whore but bard was more offended by the possibility of Geralt regretting his involvement in their little affair than the misunderstanding in the first place. Most people wouldn't take it that easy to be called or seen as a whore. Jaskier seems to have little objections in that regard.

"That's not it."

It's really not. Geralt couldn't deny he enjoyed their time together. The brunette's hands as well as mouth are awfully clever and kneeling in front of him, the other looked even better.

"But don't you mind? And why are you staying in brothel?"

Propping himself up on his elbows, the man just shrugs.

"People called me worse things than a whore in my life, so I'm left off easy with this. Also the girls tell the best stories, harvested from their clients after the throes of passion, where man tend to be the most honest and it's great fodder for my next ballads. Also the rent is cheap - I know the hag from some earlier visits and combined with a performance of my stage skills, she houses me for board and food, so I'm free to keep the coin I'm earning. Who am I to deny a fine chance?"

Blue eyes take in the Witcher's pale skin with an unveiled leer and he adds, "Also if it bestows me with such… inspiring encounters, I might entertain the thought of coming here more often."

The bard definitely has no sense of self-preservation if he's lusting after someone like Geralt. Witchers are loners, walking the path with nothing but their swords and potions, bloodshed and death following on their heels. He shouldn't get involved with the likes of him if he's not wishing for an early end. 

A hand comes to rub slow circles on his pecs, pulling him from his thoughts and making the broader man hum.

"Oh, I've seen that face before. Don't be like that, my sweet darling. Don't close your eyes before the beauty that your body holds and the heart burning hotly in your chest."

Jaskiers scoots closer, pressing their bodies together again, peppering his throat with fluttering kisses, nibbling on his ear.

"In case your traitorous mind has forgotten about the devotion you should receive, I will make sure to remind you of that. Let me worship the delicious piece of art that you are Geralt, like you deserve it."

The skilled mouth moves lower and damn, he's really good at what he's doing. Leaning back into the pillows, he's nestling a large hand in the brown locks, making the damn imp purr again while he lavishes his skin and scars with attention. Cheeky fucker. He's lucky he's that cute or else Geralt wouldn't be that patient.

"Less talking, more sucking."

The husky command makes the bard snicker, sinking his teeth into the flesh above his hip bone after placing more kisses on his abdominal muscles, making him groan in pleasure.

Just as he's arriving at the base of his rapidly hardening cock, drawing his warm tongue over the sensitive skin and making him shiver, the mynx dares to smirk up at him. Slowly wrapping a slightly calloused hand around the length, he croons,

"So tell me my dearest Witcher - have you ever entertained the thought of a personal barker?"

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind that English is not my first language :) also comments and feedback are always highly appreciated!


End file.
